<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>andante, andante by himbosamevans</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059272">andante, andante</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/himbosamevans/pseuds/himbosamevans'>himbosamevans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Glee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Burt's POV, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Slice of Life, Summer, but im posting it anyway! lol, perspective is WEIRD, tense is weird, the tone is WEIRD, this.. took far too long to write for what it is</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:28:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,495</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/himbosamevans/pseuds/himbosamevans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Burt settles himself down in the chair of the vanity, peering up at the wall-mount TV at the movie. He fishes in his pocket for the piece of paper from the restaurant earlier. His fortune cookie fortune reads: “With time comes understanding.” It feels a little apt, even if he can’t place exactly why. </p><p>(Or: In which Burt Hummel, slowly, begrudgingly, grows to accept Blaine's presence in his life.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>andante, andante</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>pretty much canon-compliant except i changed a few things about blaine's background just cause RIB had so much potential and they kind of threw it away so.. we're gonna ignore that.. and also its one line but i changed his moms name from pam because nobody deserves to be named pam<br/>also its set in like 2010/2011 (like season 2 klaine) but i think thats obvious except for the part where sam uses modern slang to say mango slaps for reasons unknown, still, even to me<br/>cw: mentioned homophobic slurs :(<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first impression that Burt gains of Blaine is not through sight, or even touch, but through word of mouth. It had seemed to Burt, in the five minutes before Blaine became a staple in his life, to be a usual Thursday; he had woken at 7am sharp, glided through his typical morning routine like a ghost, and had left for the Garage with a firm kiss on Carole’s lips, a wave to Finn and Kurt who were sitting, half asleep, at the kitchen island, and with his lunch (a turkey sandwich on Kurt’s wholewheat bread) safely packed lovingly by Carole inside a brown paper bag. </p><p>Said wholewheat sandwich had barely had little over an hour to digest when Kurt floats through the backdoor of the Garage and rests his elbows on the standing workbench near to where Burt was poking grimly at the underside of a blue Prius. He turns his head and arches an eyebrow at Kurt, who was staring without seeing, not at Burt — though nonetheless in his general direction — but at something far off in his head. </p><p>“You’re home early, huh, kiddo?” Burt grabs at a rag that hung forlornly over the metal rungs, his eyes watching Kurt curiously as he wipes off his fingers.</p><p>“Yes,” Kurt breathes, his eyes glinting. “I just got back from Westerville.”</p><p>Burt stops at that, and turns properly to look at his son. “Westerville? That’s like an hour and a half drive,” he frowns, “what were you doing in <em>Westerville</em>?”</p><p>“I was visiting the school there. Dalton Academy.” Following his father’s still confused expression, he clarifies: “For Glee. Their club there is gonna be our biggest competitor at Regionals.” Kurt shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips, “the other guys sent me to see if they’re any good.”</p><p>“In the middle of the day?” Burt says, leaning against the workbench, “what about your classes? You’re a bright kid, Kurt, and you know I can’t have you throwing it all away by skipping—“</p><p>“I know, I know,” Kurt interrupts, and then his gaze softens. “I won’t do it again. My only lesson left was Lit, anyway, and God knows I don’t need to divulge in another recap of chapter 3 of ‘Grapes of Wrath’ because Azimio wasn’t paying attention again.” Kurt straightens, standing, then, tugging on the bottom of his knee-length cardigan coyly. “No. I came to tell you about it because,” he pauses for dramatic flare, turning his head to meet Burt’s eyes again, “I met someone.”</p><p>Burt raises his eyebrows, again, at that. “Really? And, what, it’s true love, even though you’ve probably only known him for about an hour?”</p><p>Kurt rolls his eyes, his head falling back languidly, as if the words he was looking for were written on the tin ceiling of the garage. “No,” he says, sharply, “obviously not. And I just like him as a friend, as a matter of fact,” he lies, turning his gaze back to his father. “But he’s really nice. He’s called Blaine. We got coffee.” </p><p>Burt makes a disgruntled noise at that, and chucks the rag onto the rough wood of the bench. “And? What am I supposed to do with this information?”</p><p>“I’m just happy to have a new friend, s’all.” Kurt smiles coyly again, like he knows something Burt doesn’t. “And he’s gay.”</p><p>Things fall into place, then. Burt hums, thinking, and absentmindedly toys with a metal pick on the table. “I thought you just liked him as a friend,” he concludes, after a moment, and swivels his eyes to watch Kurt’s reaction.</p><p>“I do,” Kurt says, indignantly, before hesitating. “But, I mean, how many out people do you know in Lima? In Ohio, even? This is kind of a big deal for me. I know you and Carole will always support me, but,” he squirms, “I don’t know. It’s nice — it’s nice to have someone who can really… relate. In a way nobody else can.”</p><p>Burt sighs, and takes off his hat to run a hand along the crown of his head, thinking. “I know, kiddo. I know. I’m happy for you.”</p><p>“I’ll see you for dinner, then,” Kurt summarises, apparently satisfied with his father’s reaction, “I’m helping Carole make soup. Leek and potato,” Burt groans at the news, and Kurt smiles fondly. “Puh-<em>lease</em>, it’s going to be delicious. And it’s good for you.”</p><p>As Kurt begins walking back to his Navigator, Burt hears the little phone chime out the tune that Kurt selected for text messages. And he doesn’t miss the smile on Kurt’s face when he fishes his phone out of his bag's front pocket and promptly taps out a reply to who, or whatever, just caused his little iPhone 4 to chirrup. </p><p>* * *</p><p>Blaine Anderson has become a household name in the Hudson-Hummel residence — only a name — he has yet to make an appearance. Too many times this week Kurt has skipped through the front door, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island and chatting mindlessly about what hilarious thing Blaine had said today. As far as Burt’s concerned, he doesn’t understand how Kurt has <em>heard</em> Blaine <em>say</em> anything — he was told the kid lived in New Albany, and Burt’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want Kurt driving all that way on a school night. Well — actually, Blaine is originally from San Fransisco, California, but he dorms at Dalton Academy, and his parents moved along to New Albany shortly after, when his father received a promotion. But this is only what Burt has heard through the grape-vine (Kurt). </p><p>Burt feels as though he hears a lot of good things about Blaine, and next to no bad things. Which, to anybody else, may seem like a good thing; an incredible thing, in fact. But Burt knows his son, and he knows that above all, Kurt can kind of be a bitch. And despite Kurt’s claims that him and Blaine are just friends, when Kurt is chatting away, moony-eyed to Carole as she makes dinner about how Blaine drove<em> all the way </em>to the Lima Bean just to catch up with him after school, Burt can’t help but be a little suspicious. In a way, it reminds him of Kurt’s crush on Finn; slyly mentioning how Finn absolutely saved their team in the game against Carmel yesterday, or that Finn had a really good suggestion for a Glee club group number that would absolutely drive them to Nationals — when if it was anyone else, Kurt would be knocking them down a peg (in the privacy of their dining room) about how they were just trying to show off to Mr Schue.</p><p>But Burt hasn’t even met the amazing Mr. Anderson, and it seems like this preppy teenager has his son’s heart right in his little manicured palms. He has fatherly license to be irritating about it.</p><p>He’s doing the dishes with Kurt for Carole one Friday night, after dinner, and he’s eyeing Kurt out of the side of his peripheral vision as he dries plates. He knows that Kurt has ‘big’ plans for tomorrow — he’s meeting Blaine at the mall, in Columbus, and he’s been planning on breaking into his wages from shifts at the Auto-shop for the trip. Burt can tell that the trip is playing on Kurt’s mind, too, judging by the small smile and the flush on his neck, though that might just be from the hot water of the basin.</p><p>“So, this Blaine character,” Burt watches as Kurt’s head snaps up at the mention of the name, and he stares at his father, “is he… ah,” Burt fumbles for the right words, “he your boyfriend?”</p><p>“What?” Kurt is glaring now, embarrassed, “no. I told you, we’re just friends.”</p><p>“I know you <em>told</em> me that,” Burt says, taking a plate from Kurt’s outreached, rubber gloved hand, “but, was it the <em>truth</em>?” He eyes Kurt’s pointed expression, “ah, kid, I don’t know. I won’t be mad if he is, in fact, your boyfriend — I’m not gonna do something crazy, like try to separate you. But I’d prefer it if you were just honest with me.”</p><p>“He’s not,” Kurt insists, scrubbing at a plate a little harder than necessary, “believe me. I don’t know why you think I’d hide it from you.”</p><p>“Well, you’re a private person, Kurt, you and I both know that.” Burt purses his lips, “just, you talk about him a lot. And you go out together, just the two of you.”</p><p>“That’s what friends <em>do</em>,” Kurt snaps, “just because he’s gay doesn’t mean we’re dating. Trust me, if we were, you’d be the first to know,” and then Kurt pauses, his mood lifting and he smiles a little, “actually, Mercedes would be the first to know. And then you.”</p><p>Burt barks a laugh at that, and claps his son on the shoulder gently, causing Kurt to turn again and smile at him. “Fine. I believe you. And I know when to call it quits. Just,” he pauses, and looks into Kurt’s eyes, “let me know if anything updates, yeah?”</p><p>“I will, dad,” Kurt sighs, happy to let the subject drop, and Burt finishes off drying a glass just as Finn stumbles into the kitchen, pawing at the top cabinet for some Cheez-its. </p><p>“I don’t know how you can possibly be hungry,” Kurt fusses, discarding his yellow gloves in order to grab at Finn's outreached arms, “you ate <em>two</em> helpings of Carole’s mac and cheese.”</p><p>Burt smiles fondly at the two of them. He supposes this Blaine character can't be too important in the grand scheme of things.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The first time Burt sees Blaine, physically sees him in the flesh, he doesn’t even say a word to him. He doesn’t even know for sure it’s him, if he’s honest.</p><p>After the whole David Karofsky debacle, in which that sorry son-of-a-bitch (which is what Burt calls him in the confines of their bedroom, to Carole) threatened the life of Burt’s son, Burt and Carole had to come to the difficult decision to enrol Kurt at Dalton Academy.</p><p>Sure, it was much pricier than just sending him to the nearest public school, Carmel, but at least Kurt already had a few acquaintances there, as well as one friend (emphasis on friend), and their heavily monitored no-bullying policies had given Burt some small security of mind. Kurt would be dorming, which would surely be difficult; but he’d had his own car since he’d first turned 16, and Burt was more than willing to shill out a little extra spending money for Kurt each month if it was going towards gas.</p><p>Moreover, Dalton had been incredibly gracious in helping Kurt settle into the school in the middle of the semester; in the middle of the week, actually, as the Monday and Tuesday had been inset days, so on the Wednesday, Burt, Carole and Kurt were striding through the archaic halls of Dalton on his first day.</p><p>The headmaster, Dr. Wood, although, as he disclosed to Carole in a low voice, they could call him Carl, had insisted on giving them a tour of the grounds himself.</p><p>It was a large brick building, on a grassy, well gardened campus. Along the brick walls was a cream trim, covered by a meticulously shaped hedge. They walked through the school gardens, where they noticed a few students sitting on the green, books and binders strewn across the grass and blankets as they worked through homework together. At the end of a gravel path was a large, off-white wooden gazebo, where more boys sat in their free period, chatting and laughing, politely smiling and waving to the four as they walked past — one in particular, whom Kurt pointed out to his father as ‘Wes’, gave a grin and a thumbs up. They all wore the same uniform that Burt had just spent a small fortune buying for his son; dark navy blazers emblazoned with the Dalton Academy logo, and charcoal trousers. Kurt had complained that the blazers would look better more form-fitted, and the pairing of navy with grey was <em>atrocious,</em> but as far as Burt was concerned, for the price of the things, Kurt would be getting married in the damn clothes.</p><p>They left the gardens, and Dr. Wood led them across the tarmac of the carpark over to the large, cream stone steps that lead up to the glossy front doors. On either side of the double doors were neatly shaped hedge animals (birds), sitting in sculpted stone fonts. Immediately, upon entry, they were taken by a large spiral staircase, with a black, gothic style iron bannister running all along the side. Suspended from the ceiling was a low chandelier, and surrounding where it hung was a round skylight, with iron curling around the edges, like a monstrance.</p><p>The tour only lasted an hour, and in a way Burt was glad for it; Kurt seemed antsy, glancing quickly around every new room they entered, as if he was seeking something out. His new school shoes squeaked against the parquet tile floor, and Burt watched him cautiously out the corner of his eye as Carole spoke at length with Dr. Wood about the hand painted wood panelling of the hallway. The entire school seemed to smell of old books and varnish, the carpet of the dorm hallways adding the odor of boiled cabbage to the mix, and Burt couldn’t tell if it was Kurt’s anxiety rubbing off on him or the smell that was making him queasy.</p><p>Their final stop is Kurt’s new dorm room: since he joined halfway through the semester, he was not given a roommate — all the other students had already been paired off. It was a small, white room with cherry ogee skirting. There were two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, and a door to the ensuite in the far corner. One of the beds was elevated, so that a desk could sit under it, and the occupant would have to climb up a short ladder to reach the bed.</p><p>Still, to say that it was small wasn’t to say that it wasn’t nice; the headmaster mused about decoration allowances, and the fact that other boys often put photographs and posters up on the walls — and Kurt was free to change the bedding at his own will, too. Kurt simply nodded half-heartedly, taking in his new home from Monday-Friday.</p><p>Around noon, after Kurt had insisted several times that, <em>yes</em>, he would be fine, and that he’d ring as soon as he needed anything, Carole and Burt let him walk them back to the car. They’d already transported his suitcase — stuffed with his reserve uniform pieces, several pairs of pyjamas, a few spare pieces of normal clothes incase he desperately needed to leave the grounds for whatever reason, and all of his old school supplies — up to his dorm room, and the tour had finished a half hour ago. All that was left to do was leave.</p><p>Burt stands near the open car door and regards his son once over, his eyes swooping up and down: taking him in, as if he was off to war and not just to his new AP French class. He holds out his arms and Kurt meekly steps into them, rubbing his face into the shoulder of the tweedy jacket that Burt had donned in an effort to look ‘high class’. Burt presses a gentle kiss to Kurt’s hair, sighing gently.</p><p>“I love you, kid. Don’t be afraid to call.”</p><p>Kurt turns his head up, and smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “I will,” he says softly, and then, “love you, too, dad.”</p><p>As Burt turns the car around to pull out of the parking lot, Carole nods gently to the corner of the tarmacked ground: “hm, who’s that?”</p><p>Burt’s eyes follow her gaze to a boy leaning against the railing of the carpark. His hair is dark, and parted neatly, and he has light olive skin. He’s wearing a Dalton uniform, but this isn’t surprising — every teenage boy they’d seen that afternoon had been wearing one. His arms are crossed over himself, and he’s smiling into the face of the sun, looking over at Kurt. Kurt, who, turning around, seems to be as surprised as Carole and Burt to see him; none of them had seen him resting against the fence as they said goodbyes, which made Burt wonder if he’d just stepped out the building the moment they pulled the car forward.</p><p>Kurt turns and does a half walk, half jog over to him, excitedly, and the boy steps forward, off the railing, and throws his arm companionably around Kurt’s shoulders, despite the height difference, as they walk back towards the building, Burt just catching the boy’s grin as he turns his head to say something to Kurt.</p><p>“Huh,” said Carole, softly, after a moment, “I wonder if that’s Blaine.”</p><p><em>It certainly is Blaine, </em>Burt surmises to himself<em>, if the flush creeping up Kurt’s neck is any indication.</em></p><p>* * *</p><p>It takes two more weeks for Burt to finally be formally introduced to Blaine. He is still, apparently, not Kurt’s boyfriend.</p><p>Kurt had distinctly <em>not</em> called ahead to check if Blaine coming over was fine; instead, he casually rang his dad up on his cellphone whilst Blaine drove at 50mph down the freeway, glancing over anxiously at Kurt while he spoke to his dad.</p><p>“No, tonight,” Kurt clarified, batting at Blaine with one hand, pointing decidedly at the road. “Yes, it has to be tonight, he’s going back to New Albany tomorrow — I know its Friday — No, I <em>know </em>about Friday night dinner, I was there at its conception, remember? What? No, he won’t be any trouble — he’s a teenager, not a toddler,” Blaine’s cheeks flush deep orange and red at the last comment, wondering what he did to make the man he’s never met, the elusive patriarch of the Hummel-Hudsons, hold him in such low regard.</p><p>“Please, dad. We really have to work on this project, and I’ve got all my craft supplies in my room, <em>and</em> I was coming home tonight anyways. Blaine will be out of the house by 8pm — no, I promise he will, he has curfew,” Kurt glances over at Blaine again, giving him a thumbs up. Blaine feels his shoulders relax a little in his stuffy blazer.</p><p>“Okay — yeah, love you too. Bye. Love you.”</p><p>They arrive at the house in record time — 3:45, just a little over an hour from when they got let out at Dalton. It’s empty, aside from Finn, who is crashed on the couch watching a rerun of a recent football game. At the sound of the door unlocking, he turns, resting his arms on the back of the sofa to spy at who enters through the open archway between the living room and the foyer. He grins lopsidedly at the sight of Kurt, back from another week, and then blinks at Blaine, who is standing meekly behind him. He’s wearing a dark navy peacoat, a cashmere scarf tucked into the flipped collar, and is gripping a messenger bag thrown over one shoulder. His face is genial and relaxed, his gaze pointed at Finn, but his knuckles are white where he holds the strap.</p><p>“Hey,” Finn says, not taking his eyes off of the stranger in his home.</p><p>“Hey,” Blaine parrots back, smiling awkwardly.</p><p>“Oh, uh —“ Kurt turns from where he was hanging up his outer coat on the rack, and his eyes flit back and forth from his stepbrother to Blaine, “Finn, this is Blaine. Blaine, this is Finn, my stepbrother.”</p><p>Blaine strides forward then, and reaches out a hand towards Finn. His nails are short and trimmed, and Finn just stares at his hand like it’s a foreign object. He flickers his eyes from Blaine’s hand to Kurt, who is nodding with his head at Blaine’s hand from behind him, his eyes wide, and his expression reading something he’s hoping conveys: <em>Shake his hand now, or I will genuinely smother you in your sleep.</em></p><p>Finn reaches out slowly, and takes Blaine’s hand, leading to possibly the sweatiest and shortest handshake of the 21st century. Blaine pulls away with a grimace, but grins at Finn when their eyes meet all the same.</p><p>“Nice to meet you. That the recent Ohio State game?” He gestures to the TV fixed on the wall above the mantle in front of them.</p><p>Finn glances back the way he’s sitting, to regard the football game he forgot was on.</p><p>“Ah, yeah, I think so.” He says slowly, then fixes his eyes back on Blaine. “You’re Blaine? Huh, I didn’t know gay people could like foot—“</p><p>“We’re going to my room,” Kurt interrupts, waspishly, “I think Dad will be home in about an hour.”</p><p>Finn nods dumbly, watching as Kurt marches up the stairs with Blaine in tow, before turning round and fixing back on the TV where the quarterback in red and white has just scored. He grins.</p><p>Burt is back in half an hour, instead, which irritates Kurt — he knows his dad will be pissy later about him and Blaine being alone in his room, <em>unsupervised</em>, and he had wanted to sneak down and persuade Finn to play Wii or something as an alibi before his dad got home.</p><p>Burt’s voice rings out through the house at 4:15 all the same, and Kurt appears guiltily at the top of the stairs and comes down to greet him, Blaine trailing after him.</p><p>Kurt had changed in the ensuite as soon as they got in, folding his Dalton uniform over the back of the plush chair that sat at his vanity. Blaine didn’t have the luxury of a spare change of clothes, though, as he was heading back to Dalton that evening, so settled for stripping off his blazer and loosening his tie, the shirt eventually coming untucked from his slacks when he had reached to the top of Kurt’s wardrobe in search of glitter glue.</p><p>As per Kurt’s prediction, Burt raised a knowing eyebrow as they trundled down the carpeted steps, Kurt sliding to a stop on the hardwood of the foyer, exchanging a look with his dad. Blaine watched them both quietly.</p><p>“Dad, this is Blaine.” Kurt says, suddenly stepping back, as if to unveil Blaine like a brand new car, or the next biggest iPhone. Blaine falters for a second, having been hastily tucking his shirt back in, before remembering himself. If John and Nicole Anderson had done anything, they’d raised sons with manners. Or, at least, <em>a</em> son with manners.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, holding his hand out with a little more confidence than he had with Finn.</p><p>Burt gives him a once-over. Seeing Blaine up close confirms his suspicions from Kurt’s first day at Dalton; this is definitely the same kid who he saw in the parking lot. Closer, Burt can see that Blaine has meticulously gelled his hair back, the edges slick to his head whilst the hair on the top waves gently, looking soft and clean. He has thick, black eyebrows that he’s raising expectantly, though not unkindly, at Burt, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. He’s shorter than Burt, though he could tell he was going to be by the inch Kurt already gains on him, noticeable when Blaine slung his arm around Kurt’s shoulders. Kurt is gazing at him from behind like he’s the one who turns the world round.</p><p>Burt sniffs, and holds his hand out, too. “Hey. Just call me Burt.”</p><p>Blaine smiles again, bashfully, and shakes his hand, opening his mouth as if to say something, but Kurt darts forward again.</p><p>“So, uh, when’s Carole getting home? Should we make a start on dinner to help her, or something?”</p><p>Burt frowns at that, blinking at Kurt’s odd behaviour. “What? No. We —“ he breaks off to eye Blaine, who is also regarding Kurt with wide eyes, “we usually eat at 6.” He clarifies, mostly to Blaine, but to Kurt as well, who seems hellbent on entering the kitchen. “She won’t be starting dinner until, God, 5:30.”</p><p>Kurt squirms in place. “Okay, well then,” he glances over at where Finn has fallen asleep, his arms and legs strewn across the couch, “me and Blaine are going back upstairs. To work on our history project.” He makes a movement for the stairs, but Burt clears his throat.</p><p>“Why don’t you work on it down here? At the dining table?”</p><p>When Kurt turns again, Burt can tell he’s mortified by the simple request.</p><p>“Ah, I don’t mind working at the table, Kurt,” Blaine interjects, gently, his voice low and even, “um, sitting on the floor was kind of killing my back, actually.”</p><p>Burt claps his hand on Blaine’s shoulder then, grinning. “Perfect, then. You’ll work at the table.”</p><p>An hour later, after Burt has settled into his armchair to watch some tv, he turns his head so that can see straight into the kitchen-diner. He can just see Blaine’s broad shoulders stretching the cotton/polyester blend of the shirt, hunched over whatever poster-board monstrosity him and Kurt have been working on. Kurt is on the other side of the table from him, looking darkly at Burt from over Blaine’s shoulder. Surrounding the poster is a smattering of different coloured pencils, markers, coloured cardstock paper in not only reds and yellows but metallics, golds and silvers, too.</p><p>All three of their heads turn at the sound of the latch on the door, and Carole bustles in, holding a couple of bags of groceries, the car keys dangling from her mouth. She bends over the hall table to drop them into the little bowl, turning her head back up sharply to brush the bangs out of her eyes.</p><p>“Boys, groceries,” She calls, turning into the kitchen to place down the bags, and blinking at the strange young man sitting at their kitchen table.</p><p>Kurt stands suddenly, pushing the seat back with his movement. “Uh, Carole, this is Blaine. My friend, who, I, uh, told you about.” Kurt and Carole seem to have a short conversation with their eyes, before he turns quickly back to look at Blaine again. “Blaine, this is my step-mom, Carole.”</p><p>Blaine has risen at this point, too, and he beams, holding out his hand for the third time this evening.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs…” he pauses for a beat, remembering something, “Hudson-Hummel?”</p><p>“That’s me,” Carole replies, taking Blaine’s hand sweetly, “but, I mean, really, call me Carole. I’ve heard <em>such</em> good things about you,” she glances back at Kurt, her smile widening.</p><p>Blaine blushes politely, at that, smiling humbly and pulling his hand away. “I love your outfit,” he adds, casually, stepping back as if to regard her ensemble in full, and gesturing at it with his hands, “very… spring-chic.”</p><p>Carole snorts at that, mouthing a ‘thank-you’ to Finn who had begun unloading groceries by Burt’s murmured suggestion behind them. “This is just what I put on when I have to leave my scrubs at work,” she deflects, turning to fuss with something Finn had put away in the wrong place. “But thank you,” her smile doesn’t falter, and she glances at Blaine quickly.</p><p>“You’re a nurse?” Blaine asks, turning to take a couple of bags from Finn, who turns to head back for more. At Carole’s hum of confirmation, he lets out a low whistle. “Wow. My mom always says that’s one of the most under-appreciated jobs of them all,” and then, he leans in as if sharing a secret and winks, adding lowly, “I agree with her, by the way.”</p><p>“You’re a sweetheart,” Carole lifts her hand as if to pinch Blaine’s cheek, but turns her attention to the bread bin instead. “Would you two boys clear the table for me? I’m gonna start on dinner. You’re welcome to stay, Blaine,” she gestures to the supplies on the table, and gives a thumbs up to Kurt behind Blaine’s back when he turns to gather the pencils.</p><p>Dinner is not awkward. Decidedly so. Blaine is… infuriatingly charming. He chatters away about Dalton in a different way than Kurt had regaled it to his family; his voice takes on a reverent tone, singing the praises of Wes (who’s name Burt remembers, but can’t put a face to) and David, the council members (it’s all starting to sound very <em>Star Wars</em> to Burt) who boldly took him under their wings when he first joined. Still, though, he seems to love it there.</p><p>He compliments Carole’s cooking appropriately, chats with Finn about football and attempts small-talk with Burt about cars, <em>and</em> he has the damn humility to admit he doesn’t know that much about them, to let Burt take the reins on the conversation and look absolutely enthralled. Burt kind of hates him.</p><p>He offers to clear the table and do the washing up with Kurt after dinner, and, when Burt re-enters the kitchen on unexpectedly soft-footing, he finally sees the Ken-doll exterior crack slightly when he walks in on Kurt and Blaine splashing each other with the sudsy water of the sink, Kurt shrieking something about slimy leftovers in the water through fits of giggles. He just shakes his head, walks over silently to the fridge to grab another beer — and if a self-satisfied smile plays on his lips as he walks out, leaving them blushing from being caught in his wake, then that’s for Burt to know alone.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Burt is beginning to think his life unfolds only in twos: it is another two weeks before Blaine is promoted to Kurt’s boyfriend; just before Regionals.</p><p>The night he was told the big news, he should’ve known, considering it was a typical Tuesday night when Kurt breezed through the front doors, throwing his arms out and shouting “I’m home!” He did not have his messenger bag with him.</p><p>Burt had been sitting in his armchair in the front room, leaning forward and turning his neck to see Kurt standing in the foyer.</p><p>“You are,” he agreed, quirking an eyebrow, “but why? It’s Tuesday. You’re dorming tonight.”</p><p>“I just wanted to come see my family,” Kurt replied snappily, but there was no malice in it. “Is that okay? And I missed Carole’s cooking.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Burt raised his palms slightly, in surrender, “I’m not paying for the gas you wasted coming down here on a school night, though,”</p><p>“I’m fine with that,” Kurt replied, quickly, skipping over to the couch and perching on the arm, looking at his father. Burt just stared back at him silently.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>What</em> yourself — you’re skipping in here like they just, God, declared world peace or something outside. What’s up with you?”</p><p>Kurt bit his lip like he was suppressing a smile, and looked down at his folded hands on his lap. “Is it that obvious?”</p><p>“Is <em>what</em> obvious?”</p><p>Kurt looked up then, meeting his eyes and searching his gaze for a moment, before giving in to the grin and looking up at the ceiling shyly. “Blaine and I kissed.”</p><p>Burt takes great care in schooling his face into something neutral; he cannot say the wrong thing. He vaguely remembers the blonde cheerleader Kurt had brought home a few times, but, and despite Burt’s moral qualms with the mere existence of Blaine Anderson, this appears to be Kurt’s first kiss — where it counts. He <em>cannot</em> say the wrong thing.</p><p>Kurt’s face has gone from bashful and open to tight and hard from his father’s silence, all ready to be defensive, ready to shut his dad out. Maybe saying nothing can also be saying the wrong thing.</p><p>“Kurt,” Burt begins, slow and deliberate, “I’m happy for you. But you need to make sure you’re on the same page as him. That he’s not taking advantage of —“</p><p>“He’s not,” Kurt has visibly relaxed again, breathless at the memory. “He’s not. It was so romantic. God. No, it’s fine. More than fine.” Kurt bites his lip again, pulling a hand up to touch the side of his face. “I — I need to call Mercedes.”</p><p>“Okay. If that’s all you wanted to tell me,” Burt watches Kurt’s face for a moment, gives him an opportunity to say something else, before shifting back in his chair, turning his attention back to the sports section of the newspaper. He hears the shift of fabric and Kurt gets up, off the arm of the sofa, and begins walking over to the stairs. He can hear him pause behind him.</p><p>“I love you, dad.”</p><p>Burt smiles to himself, raises one hand above the tall back of the armchair to wave him off, can already hear Kurt’s fast feet padding up the stairs.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The more he gets to know him, the more Burt has half a mind to wonder whether Blaine was born wearing sunglasses and sipping margaritas out of a hollowed out pineapple, a hibiscus flower behind his ear. Blaine crows to Carole, one evening, over Friday night dinner (yes, Blaine has somehow invaded Friday night dinner more often than not, the bastard), about how he was actually born in the Philippines, in the Manila holiday home his father bought them so that they could be closer to his mothers family. He has also seemed to take up semi-permanent residence at the Hummel-Hudson house.</p><p>In hindsight, Blaine’s vaguely Eurasian heritage makes perfect sense. Blaine tans like some sort of bronzed god; after a whole weekend stay at the Hummel-Hudson’s of just lounging on the grass with Kurt, drinking orange juice out of the carton and lazily kissing on the blanket they set out (while Burt pretends he doesn’t see from the kitchen window), Blaine has affected a perfect, glowy tan, whilst Kurt, who slathers himself in sunscreen every hour, remains pale as a ghost. Burt can’t help but wonder if he’s going to find a discarded fake tan bottle in the wastepaper basket of the bathroom after Blaine leaves.</p><p>Blaine seems to be thriving in the heat, like some sort of cold-blooded lizard. He sleeps over on a Friday night more than once in the final weeks of semester, Burt begrudgingly setting up the sofa with a pillow and blanket (there is no way in hell that Blaine will sleep in Kurt’s bed, <em>with Kurt, </em>under Burt’s roof) and they wake up late in the morning on the Saturday, slipping out through the french doors to sit with their legs dangling in the Hummel’s pool, Blaine’s ankle hooked around Kurt’s calf under the water as they sit with their sides pressed together, Blaine’s hand on the cool stone next to Kurt’s hip, his thumb reaching up to trace circles on the waistband of Kurt’s swimming shorts.</p><p>Sunglasses suit his face so spectacularly, too, and as they all sit on the decking, feasting on a wide array of finger foods set out by Carole — summer berries, deli sandwiches cut into neat little triangles, chips of three different flavours in matching bowls, and tall glasses of orange juice and lemonade from icy pitchers —he tries on all the pairs that Finn and Kurt can find in the house. They all roar with laughter at the hideous red shutter glasses he tries on that Finn kept from a party at Puck’s, and, later, Kurt compliments him, doe-eyed as Blaine grins suavely underneath Burt’s vintage ray-bans, a different pair already pushed to the top of his head, disturbing his gently gelled curls.</p><p> </p><p>The first ever day of the summer break — well, the first day of the summer break for Finn and Kurt (who had since transferred back to McKinley), since Dalton breaks up a week earlier than the state schools; something about longer hours leading to longer holidays — they all take the drive down to Virginia Beach, 10 hours in the car. Despite the air-con turned up and roaring, Carole’s 7-seater is baking, and Kurt has miraculously shed some layers of his painstakingly chosen outfit. In the two front seats are Burt and Carole, taking turns at driving — the next row, Finn and Rachel, who spend 2 of the hours arguing, the other 4 sulking, playing on gadgets, and then the final 4 making up, holding hands sweetly over the middle space (the space which Rachel had moved from at the stop, in a dramatic display of suffering) and exchanging meaningful looks. In the back row are Kurt and Blaine.</p><p>Kurt and Blaine are just out of Burt’s sight in the rear-view mirror, so he’d have to turn his whole head to check on them, which is difficult whilst also driving on Route 64. When he and Carole stop at a McDonalds midway to switch over, he takes great advantage of his new passenger seat and does a lot of neck craning to see what’s happening in the backseats. It’s pretty PG, and Burt can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed that he won’t get to bust them.</p><p>Blaine has squirmed in the seatbelt so that his feet and calves are resting in Kurt’s lap, tapping away at his iPod touch. He had to borrow Finn’s headphones, since his were in the front pocket of his suitcase and he’d insisted that they didn’t have to unpack all the bags from the back of the car just to get them. He’s extended the headphones so that the band hovers precariously over the top of his hair. They’ve both kicked their shoes off, and Kurt has moved his legs so he’s sitting cross-legged on the leather seat. He has a AP US History textbook open, sprawled over Blaine’s calves, and is furiously highlighting sentences on a handout sheet. Every so often, Blaine makes a small noise of victory, and Kurt leans over to see what triumph he’s made on the little app, murmuring quiet jokes that make Blaine grin demurely and look up, meeting his eyes. If it was anyone else, Burt muses to himself, Kurt would have probably smacked them upside the head for disturbing his studying. He’s already seen him throw Finn a few pointed glares through the seats this journey alone for humming along a little too loudly to the road trip mix Carole and Burt had lovingly crafted and burned onto a CD. And if he sees Blaine press a few chaste kisses to Kurt’s lips in the back, he doesn’t say anything — he doesn’t think Kurt would ever forgive him for humiliating him just a few hours into their vacation.</p><p>When they arrive at the little seafront hotel, he and Carole head up to the front desk to collect the room keys, whilst Kurt drags Rachel over to the windows to see the ocean view from the lobby. Finn and Blaine hang back, pulling bags out of the back of the car, and when they enter through the double doors a couple of minutes later, laden with suitcases, they’re in peals of laughter.</p><p>“Dudes,” Finn says, depositing his bags next to the front desk where Carole and Burt wait, “Blaine is actually pretty cool.” He turns to watch Blaine, who is casually walking over to where Kurt and Rachel are standing. He glances around the lobby, as if to see if anyone’s watching, then wraps his arms around Kurt from behind, resting his head on Kurt’s shoulder to look out the window with them.</p><p>Carole chuckles warmly at Finn’s comment, and Burt sighs exasperatedly, turning his attention to the hotel clerk coming back to the desk.</p><p>At Carole’s insistence, they had booked three separate hotel rooms; a double for Carole and himself, and the other two rooms with two twin beds for the kids. He’d originally planned to room Rachel and Kurt together, and Blaine and Finn in the next one along, but Carole, ever the voice of reason, had just reminded him that there was no way they wouldn’t sneak along to swap rooms in the night. So Burt had begrudgingly agreed to the couples rooming together.</p><p>He knows, deep in his heart, that Kurt and Blaine are going to be… fooling around. It would be naïve to pretend they weren’t; he’d done much worse with Elizabeth by the time they were 16. And as much as it truly pains him to let Kurt get away with it, he’d much rather he does that kind of stuff somewhere safe, like his bedroom, or a private hotel room. Somewhere they’re not likely to get busted, or caught. <em>Or harassed</em>, Burt’s mind adds hurriedly, and he swallows down the thought.</p><p>The rooms appeared, in real life, to be a lot smaller than they seemed online, but the view is, as guaranteed, fantastic, and the white linen sheets seem neatly tucked and fluffy, so Burt is satisfied. He grins, wrapping his arms around Carole’s waist and tugging her in for a gentle kiss, pulling away and turning his head to inhale the scent of her shampoo and her perfume. She’d forgone makeup that day, since the length of the drive left them arriving around 7pm, too late to do anything, and was wearing an old, worn t-shirt with jeans. Burt presses another kiss to the side of her temple. “You are the most beautiful woman in North America,” he concludes, grinning wider when she giggles and bats gently at his shoulder.</p><p>After a few minutes, they head through to Finn and Rachel’s room to check on them. When there’s no answer, Carole exchanges a puzzled look with Burt and raps on the door to Kurt and Blaine’s room, the next one over, instead. Kurt answers, beaming and stepping back to let them in. Sprawled out on the bed nearest the door is Finn, with Rachel tucked up neatly beside him, inspecting something on his phone together. Burt notices someone, probably Finn, has already broken into the complimentary chocolates left out on the desk. Blaine is lying on the other bed, fiddling with the radio on the bedside table, and across from him Kurt has already returned to unpacking several items of clothing, laying them gently over the back of the vanity chair.</p><p>Burt makes a grunt of displeasure. “You kids know we paid for another room, right?”</p><p>“Oh, absolutely, of course, Mr Hummel,” Rachel turns her head quickly to look up at him, nearly head-butting Finn, “but, um, we were gonna…” Rachel trails off, obviously feeling too meek to make the request, and trailing her eyes over to Kurt instead.</p><p>“We were gonna ask if we could order room service,” Kurt finishes for her, dusting off the arm of a cardigan before turning his head to his father. “Pizza, or something. Like a slumber party.”</p><p>Carole nods at that, turning to look at Burt as well. “I think that’s a really good idea. You four can order food, and me and your father can head down to the restaurant just outside, on the pier.”</p><p>Burt’s frown softens, and he turns to smile evasively at Carole. “Fine. Just —“ he pauses, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out two twenties. “Try not to go over $40,” he finishes, gruffly, holding out the notes to Kurt, who is, in his estimations, the most sensible of the four.</p><p> </p><p>He and Carole return to the hotel a precisely 3 hours and 23 minutes later, sufficiently tipsy and giggly. They begin making their way back down the third floor hallway when they pass Kurt and Blaine’s room, 307. Carole halts them both, holding her hand up, and takes a deep breath to sober herself. She raises her hand to knock quickly at the door, but at the first push it opens, and she pokes her head round, before moving in with Burt in tow.</p><p>They’ve figured out how to turn the hotel TV on, but its volume is turned down low, a Simpsons rerun playing with the subtitles appearing a few seconds short of the dialogue. Sprawled out on the bed nearest the door, this time, is Blaine, and he seems to be ticking points off on his fingers as he speaks; “he originated the role, way back in 1989, though, <em>and </em>he won a Tony for it, and he did something insane like thirteen hundred performances —“</p><p>Rachel is glaring at him, sitting at the foot of the bed with her legs crossed to the side of her whilst Finn watches on, bemusedly, chewing on a pizza crust. There’s two room service trays stacked on top of each other on the desk, 3 large plates stacked on top of that, littered with crusts. They’ve raided the mini fridge, three coke cans (and one diet coke can) crumpled on the remaining tray space. Despite the alcohol fog thats descended on his brain, Burt makes a mental reminder to check if the drinks from there are complimentary.</p><p>Kurt, however, is nowhere to be found.</p><p>“Finn, where’s your brother?” Carole speaks, before Burt gets the chance to, and Finn moves his mouth (presumably to correct Carole to <em>step</em>-brother, if anything) before Blaine cuts in quickly:</p><p>“He’s doing his moisturising routine. He got kinda sleepy and didn’t want to accidentally fall asleep without cleansing.”</p><p>Burt pushes the ensuite door open with one hand and, huh, theres Kurt, leaning over the ceramic basin, skincare products scattered across the faux-marble countertop.</p><p>“Oh, hey dad,” Kurt says, casually, his eyes flitting across to look at Burt through the mirror.</p><p>Burt gives a hum of acknowledgement, before stepping back and sweeping across the room one last time.</p><p>“Me and Carole are going to bed; Finn, Rachel, I think you should head back to your room soon.” He then fixes his gaze on Blaine, who appears to be listening intently, “no funny business.” He leans forward, points into the bathroom at Kurt, and repeats: “No funny business.”</p><p>Kurt flushes a bright shade of pink under his fingertips.</p><p>“Oh, and lock the door next time, guys,” Carole adds, “there might be weirdos here. It doesn’t hurt to be careful.” She mimes a shudder, before grabbing at Burt’s wrist and pulling him out of the room.</p><p>Satisfied that his mantra has sunk in, Burt allows himself to be lead back to their room, making sure he locks <em>their</em> door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>The next day, they all set out for the seaside. He’s rudely awakened at 8am by Finn knocking on his and Carole’s hotel room door, complaining through the door that he’s hungry and the hotel restaurant won’t let them come down for all-you-can-eat breakfast without proof of Burt’s credit card.</p><p>“I thought on vacation you were supposed to be able to sleep in,” he mumbles to the ceiling, his voice thick with sleep. Carole hushes him, gently touching his shoulder before rolling out of bed herself.</p><p>At breakfast, they get Kurt’s food for free, because the hostess seems convinced that he’s under 15, much to Blaine’s amusement. Burt is definitely not complaining; a vacation for six people is steep, even if Rachel and Blaine’s parents have offered to foot their share of the bill when they return to Lima. Well: Rachel’s dads have — come to think of it, Burt’s never spoken to Blaine’s parents, but Blaine assures him once again, over breakfast, that the money will come up. In the same breath, he mentions his summer job at an amusement park in Columbus.</p><p>Finn is taking full advantage of the <em>all-you-can-eat</em> part of the deal, going back for seconds whilst Kurt is still picking at his eggs and toast sulkily, cheeks still reddened from the hostess’ cruel humiliation tactics.</p><p>Carole is waiting by the industrial toaster when Burt wanders to the self-serve coffee machine to grab him and Carole a second cup. He turns back to watch the table as he waits, and observes as Blaine murmurs in Kurt’s ear, hooking his ankle around Kurt’s under the table, and Kurt seems to perk up a little, turning his head to look at Blaine, his lips quirking up at the edges. They share a meaningful look, and they look as though they’re about to kiss, but Kurt leans backwards instead, glancing awkwardly at Finn still sitting across the table (who is midway through demolishing some bacon rashers, and probably wouldn’t notice anyway).</p><p>Blaine seems to settle for this, despite himself, placated by the small smile still on Kurt’s lips, and turns to pinch a grape from the bowl of fruit a returning Rachel sets down on the table, wiggling his eyebrows as she scolds him, snatching the bowl further towards herself. His foot remains hooked around Kurt’s ankle for the rest of breakfast.</p><p>After a short trip back to the hotel rooms to change and grab their backpacks, they all set out on foot down to the seafront. Half the walk, despite trying to focus on chatting with Carole about her itinerary for the first day, Burt can’t help but overhear Kurt bitterly criticising Blaine’s pineapple-patterned boardshorts. He glances back, to see if they’re genuinely arguing (at barely 10am, far too early for bitching), but only sees Blaine beaming and nodding intently, his hand wrapped around Kurt’s skinny waist, dark sunglasses hanging from the cream collar of his t-shirt that seems pale against his tan skin.</p><p>Kurt is not dressed like a beach-goer. What he<em> is</em> wearing, however, is the closest thing to a beach-day outfit Burt knows they will ever get, so he doesn’t criticise his son for it. There is freedom for self expression in the Hummel-Hudson household.</p><p>(Kurt is wearing red chino shorts, belted, around 12” inseam. Wrapped around his neck is an off-white, gossamer silk scarf. Or is it a neckerchief?)</p><p>(Finn, on the other hand, is wearing pink crocs. There’s a soccer ball charm on the right foot that Blaine admires on the walk over.)</p><p>Surprisingly, Blaine has chosen to leave his hair un-gelled for today. Finn makes an off-hand comment about it at breakfast, which earns him a glare from Kurt and a bashful laugh from Blaine. On the walk over, Finn complains to Carole about hearing Kurt call Blaine ‘Borat’ a few minutes later, which <em>really</em> isn’t fair, because, like, then what’s his angle for getting mad at Finn? and Carole just smiles and pats his arm gently.</p><p>Burt seems to understand Blaine’s forgoing of the gel, though, when, after he’s helped Rachel find a couple of big rocks to hold the blankets down, he kicks his espadrilles off in the sand near where they’ve settled, pulls his shirt off over his head and runs down into the water immediately, up to his waist in seconds. He turns around to stare at them, all sitting bewildered on the blankets, frowning and gesturing broadly with his arms for at least <em>one</em> of them to follow him. Finn’s dumbfounded expression switches to joy, and he grins back, pushing his crocs off with his toes, and running across the sand to join him.</p><p>Kurt settles himself on the blankets, watching surreptitiously over the top of the first book he picks up at Blaine spinning, shirtless, in the water, his hands catching on the waves. Blaine stops to grin blithely at the sun, holding his arms up in bliss, and Burt vaguely thinks back to when Kurt mentioned Blaine spending the majority of his childhood in San Fransisco bay. He makes a mental note to ask Blaine, later, when the last time he visited the beach was.</p><p>Blaine falls back in the water, his arms still stretched out like a more carefree, teenaged version of Christ, and lets himself be baptised for a second before emerging, pushing his now wet curls off of his face just in time to be splashed at by Finn, who has now waded out close to Blaine, but not near enough to dampen the bottom of his shirt.</p><p>Burt catches himself smiling fondly at the sight of Blaine laughing, kicking his legs in the water to soak Finn’s shirt regardless. He puts an end to that pretty quickly; he’s allowed to hate Blaine. He’s Kurt’s first boyfriend. Still, though, it’s the happiest he’s seen the kid (in terms of things not caused by Kurt), so Burt enjoys watching the moment play out nevertheless.</p><p>Just over an hour later, Blaine is letting himself be buried in the warm sand by Rachel and Kurt, whilst Finn drags Carole over to inspect the ice-cream stand further down the beach.</p><p>He giggles, wriggling underneath where the sands already been packed on his chest, when Rachel starts pouring sand over his feet, the grains running between his toes and tickling. Kurt chastises him for cracking the sand pressed down around his arms, but the effect is lost through the tender smile that graces his face while he says it. Blaine’s eyes are full of affection where he looks up at him, and he outright beams when Kurt presses a gentle kiss to his dusty forehead.</p><p>The moment is interrupted as Finn bounds back over, calling as he nears; “dudes, we got ice cream!”</p><p>They all look up, Blaine shimmying out of his sandy prison in order to free his arms, much to Rachel’s annoyance. She throws her hands up in indignation.</p><p>“You’re the only one who’s favourite ice cream I didn’t know,” Finn says, leaning down to hand Blaine his cardboard cup, “so I got you chocolate. Just a gut feeling,” he adds.</p><p>“I’ll take it,” Blaine replies, lifting his cup up in cheers when he receives it.</p><p>“Why is the vanilla so… yellow?” Kurt mutters, pushing his ice cream around with his little plastic spoon. Blaine leans forward over his shoulder to see — sure enough, it’s a pastel lemon, with black flecks spotted throughout, seemingly to constitute flakes of “whole vanilla”.</p><p>“That’s what you get for choosing such a boring flavour as your favourite,” Blaine shakes his head dramatically, sinking back on his haunches onto the sand.</p><p>“Well, then, Mr. Ice Cream connoisseur, what’s <em>your</em> favourite ice cream flavour?” Rachel asks, scooping up tiny portions of mint choc-chip on the end of her spoon.</p><p>“Oh my God, definitely raspberry ripple,” Blaine replies, and Kurt grimaces. “But, I mean, chocolate is a close second. Very close.”</p><p>“No, I’m not —“ Kurt rolls his eyes at the implication that <em>anyone</em> would be offended by the notion that Blaine didn’t like Finn’s wild guess at an ice cream flavour, “raspberry ripple is just an absolutely <em>disgusting</em> flavour, thats all.”</p><p>“What?” Blaine shifts in the sand to stare at him, wide-eyed. “No way. Wow, I — to be honest, I think we should break up. Yeah, this is grounds for a divorce.” His face construes such sincerity, that for a second, Finn looks slightly concerned, before Kurt bursts out laughing.</p><p>They choose, not as a group, to get Chinese food that evening. Kurt had protested that, all things considered, they were beside the <em>sea, </em>staying at a hotel opposite a <em>fisherman’s pier</em>, that, perhaps, to end their first real night of vacation, they should get seafood? but Rachel’s worried that shrimp will make her sick, and Blaine’s just a people-pleaser all around, so when Finn suggests Chinese food (just as a group of Japanese tourists walk past, making Kurt narrow his eyes at him), Burt and Carole just readily go with it, Kurt’s langoustine hopes dashed.</p><p>They stroll along the oceanfront via the concrete street separating the sand from the city, the sea air swirling around their heads. Along the shore are sporadic dots of colour, large beach umbrellas, windbreakers, the bright reds and blues of sunbathers’ bikinis; tan hands and slick hair bobbing about in the water, the joyful screams of children carrying over on the wind.</p><p>Rachel rejects the first two Chinese restaurants they encounter, insisting they keep walking until she finds one with a varied enough vegan selection. The third one they find seems to be to her liking, (<em>just right</em>, Burt overhears Blaine crow to Kurt under his breath) and they all usher in, the sea wind picking up as the evening nears and threatening to snatch their hats and sunglasses.</p><p>The restaurant had seemed dark and moody on the outside, but inside it’s lit up, all greens and yellows — string lights strung like bunting across the walls, little tealights in the middle of the tables. They’re lead to the longest table in the room, right at the back, under an ornamental mirror, by an acne-riddled teenager, who relays the specials to them as they walk.</p><p>The rest of the meal passes without much incident, and, especially considering Burt doesn’t like to consider himself the sentimental type, he is surprised by how easy it is; how glad he is watching Blaine and Rachel interact with his family; how well they both fit in.</p><p>Sufficiently stuffed with Chinese food, they all pile back into Carole and Burt’s room, Blaine, Rachel and Kurt in a heap on the queen sized bed, the crisp linen sheets replaced during the day already crumpled and the pillows disarrayed. They flick through the limited hotel TV channels, bickering over what to watch before eventually settling on a rerun of <em>Hang ‘Em High</em>, partially because of Kurt’s love for the costume departments of old westerns — <em>look at the brocade waistcoats, Blaine! No, they’re not really</em> that <em>historically accurate, but they’re so gorgeous I can’t bring myself to care</em> —and partially because Blaine and Rachel simply find young Clint Eastwood dreamy.</p><p>Burt settles himself down in the chair of the vanity, peering up at the wall-mount TV at the movie. He fishes in his pocket for the piece of paper from the restaurant earlier.His fortune cookie fortune reads: “With time comes understanding.” It feels a little apt, even if he can’t place exactly why.</p><p> </p><p>The following Friday, they pass through New Albany on the way back to drop Blaine off; it’s the first time any of them, aside from Kurt, have seen his house. It’s large, in that Colonial, all-American way — probably worth double the house Burt and Carole bought the year earlier. It’s grand, and redbrick, a hedge trim stretching around the perimeter of the house, pale, rectangular stones lining the pathways that stretch across the striped grass, and around the small, meticulous patches of dirt filled with bushes and flowers. Their driveway alone is probably the size of the entirety of Burt’s home. He can’t help but think: <em>why the hell do these kids always have to hang out at my place, then?</em></p><p>“Oh, I guess my, uh, mom’s home.” Blaine gestures awkwardly to the white LandRover Discovery sitting on the driveway, parked in front of the large garage doors. “I thought she’d be at book club.”</p><p>“Well, maybe she skipped it to see you back. I’m sure she missed you.” Burt claps Blaine’s shoulder, a little awkward himself.</p><p>Blaine smiles, tight-lipped. “Ha, yeah, probably. Um, I — we owe you money? For the trip, right? I’ll just — I’ll go get it, and then I’ll come out and see you guys off. Thanks again for dropping me off, seriously.” He grabs the duffel bag he’d taken on vacation and hurries over to the front door, fishing the key out of his khaki shorts, kicking his espadrilles off in the foyer before he shuts the large front door behind him.</p><p>They wait in silence for a minute, while Burt glances around, still taking in the front lawn, the navy shutters lining each window.</p><p>“What’s up with him?” Burt wonders aloud, leaning back against Carole’s minivan.</p><p>“Don’t be mean,” Kurt replies quickly, a little defensive. “His parents — they can be kind of weird about stuff. Maybe he’s just tense.”</p><p>“Weird about stuff? What —“</p><p>Blaine returns suddenly, out the side entrance this time. He’s shrugged on a cardigan — it’s later, chillier in the evening, considering they left Virginia around noon — and his espadrilles are replaced with flip flops. He’s carrying a thick white envelope. He gives a little sheepish wave to Kurt but continues straight over to Burt, holding out the envelope.</p><p>“I think this should cover all of it, right? If not —“ he pauses, glances over at his boyfriend, who’s waiting further near the hood of the van, “ — If not, Kurt can just text me what’s left over, I guess.”</p><p>“Woah, kid, when you said you’d pay me back, I was expecting a check from your parents or something not —“ Burt flicks through the contents of the envelope; mostly fifties, but a few twenties and some fives and ones here and there “— not bills, I guess.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Blaine shrugs, puts his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “That’s how they paid us at Gino’s; that’s the Italian restaurant I used to work at. Straight cash, plus tips.”</p><p>“You used to work at an Italian restaurant?” Burt slips the envelope into his back pocket; it’s a little odd to him Blaine is paying for the vacation, not his parents, especially considering the house — it’s not like they can’t afford to — but he decides to brush the issue off for the moment.</p><p>“Yeah,” Blaine grins, earnestly, now, “I used to go there for lunch all the time — they do these massive slices of pizza for cheap as a lunchtime special — and try out my conversation Italian. Its owned by this big Italian family; they took me on there as a waiter over Christmas. I guess they took a shine to me trying to order awkwardly in broken Italian.” He smiles shyly, looks down at his flip-flops and rubs the toe into the concrete of the sidewalk, “I loved working there.”</p><p>“Conversation Italian?” Burt raises an eyebrow, glances over at Kurt who seems thrilled at the prospect of his dad and his boyfriend having a real conversation of their own accord.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m still trying to learn, actually,” Blaine runs a hand through his hair, “They do an AP class of it, Italian Studies, at Dalton, but you can only take it once you’re a Junior. I’ve gotta go in a day early for the placement exam.”</p><p>“Wow. You take your studies pretty seriously, then, huh?” At Blaine’s bashful nod, he ventures, “Go on, then, dazzle us with some Italian, <em>signore</em>.”</p><p>Blaine’s head shoots up, blushing, and he glances nervously over at Kurt — Kurt, who’s eyes are positively sparkling at the idea.</p><p>“Ah, I don’t know what to say.” Blaine bites his lip, glances up at the sky, thoughtful, and then: “<em>Grazie ad entrambi per una bella vacanza</em>.”</p><p>Burt grins, slapping Blaine’s shoulder again. “Kid, I have no idea what the hell you just said. But it sounded great!”</p><p> </p><p>A week after they return from Virginia, Carole replaces the photo in the large frame on the mantlepiece. Burt wanders over to inspect it, later, when Finn’s upstairs and Kurt’s in the kitchen with Carole.</p><p>It’s the six of them, on the beach — they’d had to ask a passerby to take the photo. They’re all crowded in, the teenagers in swimming costumes, and the sun managed to be in the perfect spot — not quite in their eyes, but shining brightly enough to be flattering. Everyone looks very happy.</p><p>Burt is grateful he’s alone in the living room, because he can’t stop the soft smile on his face.</p><p>* * *</p><p>One evening, a little later in the summer, Kurt and Blaine camp out in the back garden. Kurt pulls the old tent out of the attic (where it had resided since 2002, after Burt had tried to take a young Kurt Hummel up north to the great lake for a weekend of fishing and bonding, and failed spectacularly) and they last about an hour before Kurt swallows his pride and pads, sockless and forlorn, back into the house to ask for Burt’s help in assembling it.</p><p>When he walks outside, he’s greeted by a listless Blaine, leaning back on his hands, his legs splayed across the lawn next to an array of pegs and pins from the tent’s packing, the smooth polyester sheets of the walls laid neatly on the grass. He doesn’t need to ask who arranged the pieces so neatly; he could see, from the upstairs window, Blaine pacing across the green, reading and rereading the glossy instructions that came with the tent, the paper crinkling as he folded and refolded it to read the earlier steps, and then, behind him, Kurt quietly organising the pegs by size, shine, numerical value (defined by the figures on the instruction sheet).</p><p>“Did you kids try reading the instructions at all?” Is the first thing Burt says, stopping in front of the pieces and regarding them, hands on his hips. He can’t help himself; the tightness of Blaine’s lips as he nods curtly is just too satisfying, his respect for Burt overpowering the frustrated comment he holds back. Burt just has to allow himself to wield the power he has over Blaine once in a while, you know, as a treat.</p><p>The last time he’d fully assembled the army-green tent was earlier than 2002 (he was about halfway through before realising Kurt was miserable on the fishing trip, and was going to stay miserable for the duration, and he’d packed away the pieces he’d already erected, caught Kurt’s attention from where he’d been entranced by a book from his elementary school library, and bundled them all back into the car).</p><p>No, the last time the tent had been fully assembled was more like 2000 — back when Elizabeth was alive. The tent was intentioned for two people only, but Kurt had always been short for his age, and he was only 7, <em>hardly</em> qualifying a person, so all three Hummels had packed into the tent like sardines, cosy in sleeping bags on top of a stack of Elizabeth’s yoga mats that they’d put down in lieu of a futon (which had seemed like too large of an expense to justify on top of the price of the tent). Burt smiles fondly at the memory; Elizabeth had been so excited on the drive down to the campsite, turning in the passenger seat to whisper to Kurt about the birds and plants that waited for them in the woods, begging to be found and observed by chubby fingers and pale blue eyes. She also spent half the drive soothing his anxieties about sleeping outdoors expertly, knowing exactly what to say to calm him — she’d always had a way with him that Burt couldn’t master, no matter how much he tried, how much time he spent with his son, how much he loved him. Burt knew his son loved him too, of course, but, and truthfully he couldn’t help but wonder partly if it was because Kurt and Liz were so<em> similar</em>, Kurt seemed to love his mother in a different way: fervently, not desperate for her approval but flowering in the sated knowledge of it.</p><p>That had been a good few days, spent at the campsite. It was their last ‘big’ vacation before Elizabeth got sick, and was resigned to only day trips, and then to not leaving the house at all.</p><p>Burt swallowed thickly and turned his attention back to Kurt, who had been lamenting their attempts at setting it up for the past minute or so, gesturing accusingly at the shiny metal pegs.</p><p>“I’ll set it up, all right? Why don’t you, ah, go in and help your mom with dinner.”</p><p>Kurt blinks, frowning at being interrupted, before nodding. It was then Burt noticed he’d referred to Carole as Kurt’s mom, which he never did; if Kurt had a problem with it, he chose not to say anything, instead walking forward and helping Blaine up with one hand.</p><p>“Are you sure, dad?” Kurt seems to hesitate once Blaine is up, toeing at the grass with one foot. “The exertion could be rough on your hea—“</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Burt replies gruffly, turning his head from where he’d been looking over the parts, squatted on his haunches on the lawn, “seriously. I’ll probably be done in, heck, thirty minutes tops. Then you two can come out here and do whatever it is you’re needing to do in here.” He doesn’t miss Kurt’s wince and blush at this, and, though it wasn’t what he meant to imply, the fact that it was Kurt’s first thought makes him frown. “You’re staying in for dinner, though. It’s Friday.”</p><p>They do stay in for dinner, and they all, apart from Finn, seem to manage to keep the awkwardness levels down pretty low (<em>Blaine, dude, why do you keep bumping my foot under the table?</em>) and Blaine fulfils his quota for compliments on Carole’s cooking (<em>seriously, Carole, you’ve got some secret ingredient you add to these green beans to make them so good and you’re not even gonna tell me?</em>) and then Kurt and Blaine bustle themselves back out the back door and into the garden, where the tent, finally fully constructed and waterproof, is waiting for them.</p><p>It’s later in the day at that point, but the evening is still bright for 8pm, so they don’t enter the tent just yet. Kurt delegates a few necessary minutes to observing Blaine with a critical eye, watching as he totters back from the house with a folded double futon, bending at the hip and fussing with his head inside the tent as he tries to get it to lie flat on the sleek ground-covering inside.</p><p>But then they relax, turning their attention to the small glasses of sparkling wine Carole had left out of them, reclining on the blanket further up the lawn to watch the sky change hues from blue to pink to orange to darkness, Kurt curled into Blaine’s side, his head resting on his shoulder as they talk about nothing and everything.</p><p>Burt sees them later, as he’s shutting the venetian blinds in the kitchen before bed, the lantern hanging from the roof of the tent turning it into a shadow puppet theatre; the outline of one of the boys sitting criss cross on the edge of the futon, chatting animatedly with his hands. The other boy is reclined, his head resting on his hand, propped up by his elbow, nodding when appropriate and throwing his head back in laughter in earnest. They lean in, as if to kiss, and Burt pulls the blinds down then, giving their silhouettes their privacy.</p><p>In the morning, Burt and Carole decide to eat their breakfast outside, on the decking, and at around 9am Blaine emerges from the confines of the tent.</p><p>“Blaine, your morning hair looks <em>perfect</em>.” Carole calls from the decking and he nods at her comment sardonically.</p><p>“Ha, ha. Very funny.” He runs his hands through it, the cowlicks popping right back up between his fingers; he looks a little insane. “I don’t usually let it see the light of day without a shower and half a tub of gel.”</p><p>“I’ve noticed.” Carole nods, taking a sip of her coffee. “Kurt still asleep?”</p><p>“Yeah, I think I’ll let him lie in,” Blaine sinks into one of the wicker chairs beside them, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I always feel like he doesn’t get enough sleep.”</p><p>“He doesn’t,” Burt cuts in, through a mouthful of bagel. “He’s always up until the wee hours of the morning on the phone to <em>somebody</em>.”</p><p>Blaine grins back at him, a little sheepishly, but smugly, too. “I can’t imagine who that would be.”</p><p>“Hm, me neither. If I ever find him I’ll be handing him that phone bill right away, though.”</p><p>“Handing who a phone bill?” Kurt has emerged silently from the tent, hopping up onto the decking and sitting on the arm of the chair Blaine had settled in.</p><p>“Oh, nobody of importance,” Blaine grins up at him, nudges him gently with his elbow. Kurt raises an eyebrow like he’s out of the joke.</p><p>Seemingly not that invested, though, he smoothes a ruffled curl with a proprietary finger, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Blaine’s temple. He inhales, “Mm, you smell like outside.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve <em>been</em> outside since yesterday evening,” Blaine replies, a little defensively.</p><p>“Not a criticism,” Kurt hums, the warm morning and the fact that he got to sleep in (even if for just an hour) making him languorous and liable.</p><p>Burt has to admit that anyone who can mold his usually waspish, teenaged son’s mood into something even a little more wan is someone in his good books — phone bill be damned.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Later in the summer, Kurt invites both the New Directions and the Warblers over for a garden party, and they laugh on the large stretch of lawn as they fill up buckets worth of water balloons and spray guns. Burt watches, begrudgingly, from the patio doors as Rachel Berry drives up his water bill by turning on the hose and spraying Finn in the back of the head with it; Finn, who, swiftly turns around and bites at the water like some kind of dog, before charging forward and sweeping Rachel up in his big arms, as she screams and laughs, dropping the hose to the ground, where it writhes, splashing water on the concrete trim of the garden.</p><p>They’ve set up some sort of speaker-rig with Kurt’s old karaoke machine, a pale pink thing with stickers plastered across it, and people settle on little throw cushions to watch couples duet on the lawn. Blaine is belting out a rendition of ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,’ alongside Mercedes whilst shirtless, his trunks still wet and clinging from the pool. Nevertheless, he’s do-wopping across the grass around her as Mercedes giggles and fills in Kiki Dee’s lines. He comes up behind her, tipping his head onto her shoulder on the chorus, before beaming and breaking away to accept a pair of rhinestoned sunglasses being brandished at him from the ground by Wes.</p><p>“Where did you even get these?” he asks into the microphone, unfurling the arms of the glasses and missing his line, to Mercedes’ annoyance. Wes replies, but Burt can’t hear what he says over the backing track still playing from the karaoke machine; just Blaine’s laugh in response, before he jumps back in for the next verse, new glasses on his face, grinning.</p><p>“They’ve somehow made Elton John even gayer,” Kurt muses from where he’s suddenly appeared beside Burt like an apparition — he hadn’t even seen him approach. His arms are folded, but theres a fond smile on his face. “I didn’t know that was even possible.”</p><p>Burt huffs a laugh, turning his attention from Kurt back to where Blaine is dancing on the lawn, one hand in Mercedes’ as he twirls her, belting out a final note and pulling her close by the waist as they finish, laughing and breathless. A smattering of applause goes up from where people had been watching on the cushions as they bow, hand in hand, and then Rachel is tugging Finn over to the machine and taking the microphones from them with a gracious smile.</p><p>Burt diverts his attention to look at Kurt again: he’s hardly seen him, since he’d been dashing about all morning playing the hospitable host. He’s still got <em>his</em> shirt on; an old, too-large Dalton shirt with names printed on the back of it underneath a big, wrinkled ‘2010 Regional Team’ (that Burt doesn’t remember buying nor Kurt receiving) and he’d been convinced into some tartan swimming trunks earlier in the day by a puppy-eyed Blaine.</p><p>“You haven’t been in the pool yet?” Burt asks, taking another sip from his beer.</p><p>“Oh, no. God no.” Kurt has brought one hand up to touch a finger to his chin pensively, “I promised Blaine I’d go in with him but..” he shrugs with a grimace, “I don’t think so.”</p><p>Burt swaps his beer into his other hand and touches Kurt’s shoulder with his newly free hand. “Let yourself enjoy the day, Kurt.”</p><p>Kurt looks at him from the side of his eyes, his face stony, but then his gaze softens a little. “I am enjoying myself. It just so happens I enjoy myself best when I’m busy.” Burt opens his mouth again to say even busy people should take time to relax, but Kurt’s already setting off across the yard again. “Tina Cohen-Chang! Stop kissing Mike for a <em>second</em> and become aware of your surroundings!”</p><p>He’s reaches Tina near the table of foods Carole set out, where she’s dangerously close to knocking over the bowl of punch when Blaine creeps up behind him (or, tip-toes as sneakily as one can in flip flops) before grabbing him round the waist and throwing him in the pool. A cheer goes up from those lounging on the deck chairs as Kurt re-emerges indignantly, gasping and furious. Blaine, on the other hand, has his hands above his head victoriously, laughing, open-mouthed. Kurt pushes his hair out of his face, staring daggers at his boyfriend. He starts swimming towards the edge, hoisting himself up on the tile and stripping off his soaking shirt, slamming it on the poolside trim with a <em>thwap</em>.</p><p>Blaine seems to be a little remorseful, shuffling closer to Kurt; he has apologies on his tongue, but he’s still grinning successfully. Kurt grabs at him round the ankle as soon as he’s near enough and tugs him in, but Blaine’s already been in the pool, so the effect is lost, and he emerges quickly, his red flip flops floating to the surface around him. He holds out a hand to Kurt, and pulls him back in after him when he takes it. He laughs as Kurt splashes him with water as he emerges, as if to prove a point, and then Blaine swims close, pulling Kurt into a languid, sun-dazed kiss with one arm around his neck, the other treading water. One of the unnamed Warblers whoops from a deck chair, and Kurt raises his arm to flip him off.</p><p>Burt smiles softly without realising he’s doing it, finishing his beer and heading back inside.</p><p>Later that evening, they’re sitting around the outside table, on the decking. The sun has midway set to reveal dreamy oranges and purples, but the air is still warm, and it buzzes and crackles around them. Most of Kurt’s glee friends have drifted home, often in the same cars, save for Finn, Rachel and Sam. And, of course, Blaine.</p><p>Burt leans back in his seat, a grey rattan thing with white floral cushions that Kurt and Carole had picked out together after seeing the size of the garden of the prospected house, back when they were still planning to move in together. Despite this, a mere few weeks into the summer the wicker has already begun to unweave, the thorny ends digging into the nape of Burt’s neck when he settles back at an odd angle.</p><p>Carole returns from the house with a platter of sliced mango, strawberries and kiwi, and a gentle cheer goes up from the teenagers sitting and talking. Sam immediately dives in, grabbing three of the mango slices before she can even put the plate down, and Blaine makes a little noise of annoyance at him, muttering under his breath.</p><p>“What? Mango slaps.” Sam defends his actions through a mouthful of mango.</p><p>Blaine opens his mouth to make an argument, but his iPhone 4 (clad, this week, in a novelty penguin case Mercedes picked up for him at the mall), starts to rattle against the glass of the garden table. He picks it up, leaning back, and his face tightens as he reads the caller id. He smiles, tight-lipped, at Kurt, before standing up. “I, uh, gotta take this.” He begins walking back over to the house, his hand resting in the back pocket of his khaki shorts, as if to evoke an image of the word ‘casual’. Burt catches a quiet, “hey, dad,” before Blaine disappears completely through the patio doors.</p><p>Rachel takes the break in the chatter as an opportunity to swoop in with the fact that her dads are getting a new extension on the house; excitedly nodding at Finn’s polite questions; prattling on about reverb in a sun room. Kurt mutters something about her not knowing a conservatory from a conservatoire.</p><p>Blaine doesn’t return for a couple of minutes, and Burt flickers his eyes back over to Kurt, who is watching the french doors, like if he concentrates his gaze hard enough Blaine will burst back into the garden, singing and dancing.</p><p>Burt sits up further, on the edge of his seat, and talks as though he’s addressing the table. “I’m, ah, gonna head in, grab a cup of water,” he’s looking straight at Kurt, who raises his head slightly, to peer at his father curiously. Burt lowers his chin in response, willing him to understand. He slaps his hands on the edge of the wicker armrests as he stands, and sweeps his eyes over the table once more before turning and walking back towards the house.</p><p>The patio doors lead straight into the kitchen, and Burt moves to toe off his moccasins on the mat near the door so as not to dirty the cool slate tiles of the floor, before noticing the open front door, Blaine’s voice carrying through the hallway into the kitchen. He continues through, onto the hardwood of the foyer, and pushes the door open with one hand.</p><p>Blaine is pacing on the driveway, one hand clutching a cellphone that he’s holding to his ear, and the other shoved in the front pocket of his shorts. The khaki swishes around his thighs as he paces, and the soft, worn polo he’s wearing hangs off of him, large and loose from being washed too many times. It makes him seem even smaller than his meek posture already conveys.</p><p>“ — I’m not being disrespectful, I’m really <em>trying</em> not to be, but you’re not even trying to listen or <em>understand</em> me — “ he turns his head when Burt pulls the door shut behind him, standing on the doorstep with his hands in his jeans. He swallows thickly at the sight of him, his eyes rimmed red.</p><p>“Ye — yeah. Okay. Sure, dad. I’m,” he pauses, like the words are painful to get out, “I’m sorry, then. It’s not — going to happen. I won’t. Fine. I’ll speak to you later.” Blaine’s facing Burt fully now, and the low murmur emitting from the phone clicks and stops, but he continues holding it to his ear.</p><p>“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Burt takes a step forward, looks down at the pavement and back at Blaine, who has finally lowered his arm, slipping his iPhone back into his front pocket. Blaine just shakes his head slowly.</p><p>Burt knows when not to push; just shrugs and continues standing there, doesn’t focus on Blaine’s face but rather up at the purpling sky, the birds flying overhead.</p><p>“You ever call Kurt a.. a slur? In the heat of the moment? When you’re especially frustrated with him? With his sexuality?” Blaine asks, suddenly, after a moment, his face unreadable and uncharacteristically wan.</p><p>Burt snaps his head back down to look at Blaine, sets his jaw. “No. Never.” He finds he can anticipate what the phone call was about.</p><p>“Really?” Blaine’s tone is light and airy, but joyless, and he continues, “not even fag? Or, one that’s, oh, you know, not <em>so</em> bad, like fairy?” He spits the words out, bitterly, and Burt can see his fists are clenched tightly at his side, his knuckles turning white. Burt suddenly finds himself feeling protective of the boy pacing in his driveway.</p><p>“Your dad call you that? Your dad think it’s alright to say that to you?”</p><p>Blaine laughs joylessly. “Sure.” He pulls his hands up to clutch the back of his neck, shaking as they rise, “I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? That it’s disgraceful?” When Blaine turns his head to look at Burt (for, what, confirmation? Reassurance?), Burt can see his eyes are still red, puffy around the edges, watery. “That my… my lifestyle is disgraceful?” He laughs again, bitterly, at the word, like he’s parroting something he’s heard before.</p><p>“No. Hey, Blaine, look at me,” Burt finds himself stepping forward, gripping Blaine’s shoulders in his hands. “You are not disgraceful. You’re not… you’re not any of those things. For any reason — certainly not your <em>sexuality</em>.”</p><p>Blaine nods his head, almost imperceptibly, and Burt feels overcome, again, with sympathy for him.</p><p>“God — come here,” he pulls him roughly into a hug.</p><p>Blaine sinks into the hug, the original tenseness seeping out of his bones while Burt holds him, still shaking, and Burt turns his head slightly so that his cap doesn’t dig into Blaine’s hair, messing up the coiffure — though, the water from the pool seems to have washed most of the gel out, and it curls at the side of his head and at the top, near his parting. For the first time, Burt notices, he can smell Blaine; truly smell him. Over the smell of the chlorine, and sunscreen, he’s perfumed so strongly with men’s Lacoste in ‘Blanc’ that Burt wonders if he was baptised (or waterboarded) in a font devoted to it before he drove here. Underneath, though, are the remnants of artificial strawberry — Blaine’s shower gel or maybe hair gel, Burt can’t truly tell, and he thinks back to last week, when Kurt had dictatorially chosen the strawberry Yankee Candle over Carole’s preferred cinnamon on the weekly Hummel-Hudson trip to Walmart for no explicable reason.</p><p>When they pull away, Blaine’s eyes are still watery, and he worries his lip for a second before speaking. “You know,” Blaine pauses for a choked-up breath, “I wish my dad could accept me — the way you accept Kurt.”</p><p>Yesterday Burt would have denied even <em>liking</em> Blaine, but now, Goddamnit, he’s getting misty in his own driveway. “Yeah,” he says, gruffly, “me too, kid.”</p><p>Blaine manages a grim smile, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, before reaching up to rub the back of his sunburned neck awkwardly.</p><p>“I suppose I, ah, should be getting back. Both of us, even. I don’t want,” he falters, “I don’t want to worry Kurt. You won’t tell him, will you? About my dad?”</p><p>Burt rolls his eyes and crosses over his heart with his fingers, earning a quiet laugh from Blaine. As little as he knew of it, it wasn’t his story to tell. At least Blaine knew he had someone to come to, now, a more accepting father figure. And as much as he hates to admit it, he can tell that Blaine does truly care for Kurt. In a way, seeing him so vulnerable humanised him in a way that he just wasn’t before. Before, he was Kurt’s perfect little hobbity first boyfriend. Now? He was just a boy.</p><p>Burt steps back, pausing to regard him once again. He really was <em>just </em>a boy. With the way Kurt has always been mature for his age, often trying to act too-grownup too-soon, alongside Blaine’s immaculate manners, he can sometimes feel as though he’s watching an old married couple totter about their life. But, in truth, Blaine was still only 16 — he was a child. How could his parents say such cruel things to what, was in fact, a child?</p><p>He meets Blaine’s eyes, and smiles, “You know,” he adjusts his cap, nonchalantly, “Kurt’s mom would have loved you.”</p><p>Blaine grins ear to ear then, genuinely, and tilts his head. “Really?”</p><p>Burt can’t help but grin back at him. “Yeah. God, I see so much of her in Kurt, it’s crazy.” He sniffs, a little somber again, “I miss her everyday. Kurt does, too, I can tell. But she would have loved you.”</p><p>Blaine hums, still smiling, and runs a hand through his curls, which have dried in the sun. “He talks about her sometimes,” he confesses, lowly, “she sounds like she was a great woman. He always says how patient she was.” Blaine pauses then, seeming to consider whether disclosing Kurt’s stories to Burt would be too far, and then deciding that it’s not, “he always talks about… memories of helping her get ready for date night. Watching her get ready, helping her choose out her makeup and perfume,” there’s a fondness growing in Blaine’s voice, and he smiles a little, only at the memory of Kurt’s retelling. Burt can’t help but wonder if they spoke about it at Virginia Beach; one of the late nights spent whispering hushed stories of Elizabeth across the twin beds.</p><p>“Yeah, he loved that,” Burt affirms, and he can feel the tears prickling at the back of his eyes again. God, what was wrong with him? Burt Hummel wasn’t a crier. The last time he cried must’ve been years ago; he doesn’t even cry at sad films, those stupid chick-flicks Carole insists on putting on at date night, even if they tug a little at his heart strings. But he supposes Elizabeth always subverted his expectations, even for himself. “She was a brilliant woman.” He pauses, then confirms: “The love of my life.”</p><p>Blaine nods like he understands, even though they both know he doesn’t. Couldn’t.</p><p>“What’d he say to you, then?” Burt awkwardly gestures to Blaine’s hand, where he’d been clutching his iPhone when Burt had come out. Now, his palm is empty, but his fingers were still clenched around the air tensely, conversation about Kurt’s mom or not. “Your, er, dad.”</p><p>“Oh,” Blaine’s voice is breezy again, like he’d already started construction on a mental wall again, “just, uh. My mom put him up to it, I think. The phone call, I mean. He started off casual, just, um, asking me how my day was. Him and my mom — he,” Blaine falters for a second, “it’s kind of big, I guess. He got another promotion, so him and my mom are gonna go down to Washington for a couple of months. Stay in an apartment. They — there’s already down payment, on the house, though, so. I’m just gonna be staying alone for a while. I think he said Cooper was gonna fly over in a week, check on me.” Blaine looks anywhere but Burt’s face. “He said — I got so. Hm. I got so, you know, worked up because, uh,” he rubs his hands over his face again, “he told me to make sure I didn’t invite my <em>fairy boyfriend</em> over while they were gone.” Blaine still isn’t looking at Burt’s face, but Burt can tell his eyes are dark where he’s scowling at the ground. “Said he didn’t want any of that <em>disgraceful behaviour</em> in his house.”</p><p>“Nothing you and Kurt do is disgraceful,” Burt finds himself saying, before he even really realises he was going to speak, “I mean — do I want to hear every tiny detail of it? No, of course not, but,” he struggles with his words. He wants to express, so <em>emphatically</em>, to Blaine that there’s nothing wrong with who he is. With who he loves. “I know you love him. That it’s<em> love</em>; regardless of the fact that you’re two guys. There’s nothing wrong with that.”</p><p>Blaine looks up at him, thankful. He supposes Blaine had expected him to blow up at the notion of Blaine’s dad speaking about his son that way. And of course, he’s furious, but is that what the kid needs right now? Another middle aged man yelling at him (or even just near him?)</p><p>“Thank you, sir.” His voice is quieter now, uncharacteristically uneven.</p><p>“Please, how many times? To you, Blaine, it’s Burt.”</p><p>“Thank you, Burt.” Blaine says, his voice still gentle, but his face has softened out; scowl smoothed out, replaced with big, grateful eyes.</p><p>They stand silently for a moment. “Let’s get back, then, huh, kid?” Burt slings an arm round Blaine’s shoulders, leading him back into the foyer.</p><p>Kurt has ventured out from the garden to wait anxiously in the kitchen, tapping his fingers against the countertop. He perks up when he sees them re-enter, and glances from his boyfriend to his father, trying to read their expressions.</p><p>“Sorry, kid,” Burt chooses the spare Blaine the agony of having to retell the story immediately to Kurt, “Blaine’s dad was just having, ah, a little engine trouble. Just needed to get the ol’ expert on the line, though,” he finishes, winking at Blaine who is shooting him yet another grateful glance.</p><p>“Has Sam finished the mango slices, yet?” Blaine asks, suddenly back in costume, stepping forward out of Burt’s grasp and linking arms with Kurt as they begin to walk across the kitchen. Kurt only smiles knowingly in response. “God, he better not have, I’ll kill him.” Blaine mock pulls on Kurt’s arm, suddenly striding across the tiles in big steps, and Kurt snickers bemusedly, letting himself be tugged.</p><p>Burt hangs back, near the kitchen island, watching them.</p><p>Not for the first time, he feels as though he just saw past whatever persona Blaine puts across all the time. This time around, though, he feels like he really already knew him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ive never been to virginia beach or san francisco bay so i'm really sorry if its inaccurate. im assuming they contain touristy beaches :D<br/>p.s bonus points to anyone who can guess who blaines describing in the hotel room to rachel/what theyre arguing about lmao<br/>p.p.s for the curious, blaine says in italian: thank you both for a lovely vacation. (according to google translate)</p><p>find me on tumblr: himbosamevans.tumblr.com :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>